


Do Me A Favor (And Please Touch Your Lips To Mine)

by luninosity



Series: McFassy Mistletoe Fluff [1]
Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) RPF
Genre: Accidents On Set, Epiphanies, First Kiss, Friends to Lovers, Holidays, Hurt!James, Hurt/Comfort, James Being Adorable, Love Confessions, M/M, Mistletoe, Oblivious Michael Has A Realization At Last, Panicked!Michael
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-05
Updated: 2012-12-05
Packaged: 2017-11-20 09:54:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/584091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luninosity/pseuds/luninosity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mistletoe, possible flirting, oblivious Michael, accidents on set, James in the hospital, hurt/comfort, epiphanies involving love, mistletoe again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Do Me A Favor (And Please Touch Your Lips To Mine)

**Author's Note:**

> Written ages ago on LJ for telperion_15, who requested “James/Michael, mistletoe”. Title and opening quote from Eve 6’s “Superhero Girl.”

_the telephone_  
 _doesn’t scare me anymore_  
 _you’re home_

The mistletoe, Michael decided, was stalking him.

It had to be sentient, mutant, malevolent mistletoe. No other good explanation would suffice.

He was well aware that that probably didn’t qualify as a _good_ explanation to anyone else in the world, but honestly, no one else was currently being stalked by the mistletoe, so he really didn’t give a damn.

“James?”

“Hmm?” James, hopping into the recruitment-road-trip car next to him, looked over, happily. “Were you still thinking that we should try to fit a Christmas tree into Matthew’s office? Because if so, I’m completely in favor of that idea.”

“Absolutely yes. Tomorrow. Also, do you think that mistletoe can hate people?”

“What…like, evil, mutant, sentient mistletoe? Maybe.”

And that, right there, was why they were such good friends. Perfect. Michael grinned at him, just for that. James smiled back, and leaned against him, shoulders touching, waiting for someone to get around to giving them their cue. Licked his lips.

“Did you forget your chapstick again?”

“If you have evil sentient mistletoe, I have some sort of chapstick fairy. Like the Tooth Fairy, except she compulsively steals my chapstick. And never leaves me money for it, either.”

“So…not at all like the Tooth Fairy, then.”

 James just sighed, pathetically. “I know it was in my pocket this morning...”

“Did you check before or after you had coffee?”

“I can function in the mornings without coffee, you know. But…before.”

“The evidence suggests otherwise. Here.” Michael handed over the one that he’d put in his own pocket, that morning. Not for himself. Of course.

“Thank you. Again. So… you think that mistletoe hates you, then?”

“Well, _yes_. Look.” He reached up, knowing even before he saw it that it would be there, and tugged the innocuous little bundle of green out from behind the rearview mirror. “See? It’s following me around.”

“Just because someone put it in our car—”

“Not just our car.” He threw the mistletoe at James’s head; James ducked, and it went sailing out the window and hit Matthew in the ear. James called, “Sorry!” and Matthew just shook his head and then tossed the fraying leaves at Kevin, who caught them, and mimed blowing a kiss in his direction.

“It was also in the makeup trailer yesterday. And outside my hotel room the night before that. And I know you noticed the one over the front door of the mansion set the day before that.”

That’d been a rather memorable moment, in fact. James apparently _hadn’t_ noticed, at least not obviously so, and they’d almost walked under it together, except that Michael had become increasingly paranoid about doorways over the last few days and had stuck an arm out and said, “Wait,” and pointed, and then James had turned an interesting shade of pink, no doubt out of dismay at the nearness of their escape, and hadn’t been able to look directly at him for several minutes.

“Maybe it’s not stalking you,” James mused, “as much as it’s sort of terrorizing the set overall?”

“No. It’s definitely me.”

“Why—”

“There was some tied to Erik’s Nazi-hunting weaponry, James.”

“Possibly someone’s trying to tell you something, then.”

“Why wouldn’t your hypothetical person just tell me in words instead of pursuing me with terrifying holiday-themed plants?”

“Maybe he—or she—is trying to be subtle about it?”

“Evil omnipresent mistletoe is hardly subtle!” Also, he? Not that Michael particularly minded—he liked to think that he just appreciated attractiveness in every possible shape—but since when did James default to those pronouns, in that order, in a sentence about someone being attracted to Michael?

“Well, maybe—”

But that answer got cut off, as Matthew finally waved at them, and James blinked and put on his appropriately professorial Charles expression, and Michael tried to think serious Erik thoughts instead of wondering about James’s pronoun choices.

At least the mistletoe situation helped with Erik’s paranoid mentality, he told himself. He was definitely starting to feel persecuted. And maybe, once he figured out who was behind it, there could be revenge.

James would, he was sure, gleefully help him with said revenge. And then maybe he could ask about the pronouns, too.

Those thoughts, along with intermittently keeping an eye on James for chapstick-intervention moments, at least kept him sane enough to make it through the rest of the mistletoe-infested day.

 

There was mistletoe lurking above the entryway to the mock jet interior, on the soundstage, the next morning. Michael glared at it, and then looked at James, and sighed. James, the traitor, started laughing.

“It isn’t funny.”

“It’s a little bit funny.”

“You’re going to feel very guilty when the crazed stalker kidnaps me in the night, you know.”

At which James stopped laughing. “You don’t seriously think—”

“No, probably not. I’m more worried that Kevin’s planning something diabolical involving me being caught kissing him. And video cameras.”

James studied him for a minute, clearly still contemplating the previous suggestion. “I wouldn’t let anyone kidnap you in the night, you know.”

“I…appreciate that?” In fact, if one of them had to be an insane kidnapper’s target, he’d rather it be himself than James. Which was probably a very odd revelation to have about one’s co-star, but inarguably true. James was…James. Smiling and cheerful and enthusiastic about the world and honestly interested in every single person he met, and Michael never wanted anything to happen to take away that friendliness, ever. Not if he could help it.

Since when was protectiveness one of the emotions he felt for James, again?

“Anyway, it’s not Kevin,” James was saying, apparently oblivious to Michael’s mental speculation about just how far he’d go, should the situation ever arise, in order to ensure James’s safety. “I promise. He doesn’t know anything.”

“How do _you_ know? Wait, do you actually know something about this?” Maybe that explained the pronouns from the day before, which Michael had been resolutely not thinking about all night. But who would James have been referring to?

“Um…”

“Tell me!”

“You two!” That was Matthew. “Quit flirting with each other and get on the damn fake plane!”

“We’re not—” James said, and then shook his head, yanked down the mistletoe, and tossed it over his shoulder while Michael was still trying to process the odd tone behind those first two words. “All right, we’re going!”

“Good! And if we finish on time, you can get the damn tree out of my office, too! I can’t even see my desk!”

“Oh, you have no Christmas spirit at all!” James climbed into the fabricated plane; Michael followed. “You know, I’m not so much looking forward to this one. Thank god Charles wears all the sweaters in the world; he’ll need them to hide the bruises, after being tossed around on the floor of a jet.”

“You don’t have to do this one yourself, you know. That’s why we have stunt people.” Also, now he was picturing the scene, too, the two of them—only the two of them, because they were being filmed separately, everyone else waiting off to the side so that all the cameras could focus on this stunt—being flipped around on wires and hitting walls and plastic and fake metal, and suddenly he didn’t want James doing it, either.

“Oh, come on, I can’t make the stunt people get hurt in my place. Besides, I have you. You’ll hold onto me.”

“Of course I will.” That assertion had probably come out more emphatic than it should’ve, but James just grinned, unperturbed. “All right, then. Shall we?”

The first one went well, rather surprisingly; the mock interior spun around the way it was supposed to, and they flipped around in midair and avoided getting tangled in wires and crashed into walls and each other with painfully realistic force, and Matthew clearly approved. So they did it again.

The second one didn’t go as well, issues with timing and camera angles, and neither did the third take, and Michael started attempting to hold up some of his weight and not land on top of James quite as heavily, because he could _feel_ James wincing every time he ended up crushed into insufficiently padded set pieces.

The fourth one was better, again, except for how, when Michael flung a defensive arm around him, James grabbed his wrist in return, instinctively, seeking out reassurance as a bulwark against pain, and Michael abruptly realized that his own flare of alarmed protective instinct wasn’t acting at all.

Matthew, on the other hand, loved that particular take. “Do that again! The emotion in that one was fantastic! Just one more, to make sure we got it, okay?”

Michael glared at him, through the open doorway, and started to snap back, “No!” but James was already answering. “Of course, if you want us to!”

“James—”

“I’m fine, I swear. One more. Um…can I ask a question? Is it just that it’s especially evil mistletoe, or do you not like it ever?”

“I don’t _dislike_ it. Except for when it’s stalking me. I just don’t understand it. It’s…contrived.”

“Really?”

“If you want to kiss someone, and they’re interested, too, shouldn’t it just sort of happen naturally? And if they’re not interested, you shouldn’t be trying to kiss them.”

“Hmm.” James glanced away, for a second. “All right. I might have something to apologize to you for, then. After this last take, though. Okay?”

“You—wait, what?”

But they were already starting; he could feel the rumble as the set started to shake, appropriately ominous considering that last exchange. Grumbling at them, as they started moving again.

And then, all at once, not so appropriately ominous. More violent. Wrong. Accompanied by a chorus of concerned shouts from the outside.

Something snapped, up near the fake instrument console, and a single piece of black plastic rushed along the wall toward them, with viciously perfect timing, too perfect, because it ended up underneath them, but it was too late to stop and he tried desperately to twist them away but James landed on top of the sharp-edged brokenness anyway, and then Michael came down on top of him, and he felt the impact all through his own body, James crying out in pain and then going far too still beneath his weight, and then the set stopped spinning, hopelessly, with finality.

He flung himself upright as fast as he could. James didn’t move.

Michael heard himself say “No,” very small in the breathless hush, and tugged James over onto his back, and saw four inches of jagged black plastic sticking brutally out of the suit, out of James’s stomach, just above his left hip.

“No. _No_.” He didn’t have any other words. And James still didn’t move.

“James, come on, look at me, please…” The world felt unreal. None of it, not the rush of concerned bodies charging toward them, or the brightness of the lights, or the hardness of the set beneath his numb legs, none of that mattered at all.

“James, _please_.” There was blood; he could see it, beading dully up around the edges of the wound, but he couldn’t tell how deep it went, how much the suit’s padded thickness had helped. If it had.

He didn’t have gloves on, but James did; he pulled one off. Pressed dark fabric against the blood. Tried to hold it all inside. Why hadn’t James woken up yet? That was a pulse, wasn’t it? Thumping against his panicked fingers?

“James? You can wake up now. Any time. It was just a stupid accident, you can’t be—not from this, not now, you need to stop scaring the hell out of me and wake up, now, please, please look at me, I can’t—I can’t lose you—”

He had to stop. That thought’d hit him somewhere deep inside, physical pain like the ferocious cracking of heartbreak. He’d only just figured out that he’d do anything to protect James, anything at all, and now he couldn’t, because he hadn’t kept James safe and he might not ever get the chance to try again.

James blinked. Opened his eyes, far too blue in that now-pale face. “Oh…hi. Are you…all right?”

“Me? James, you—don’t move, please, you’re hurt—”

“Oh—ow, fuck—all right, if you say so. I don’t think it’s that bad, though. It doesn’t hurt. Much. And you didn’t answer me.”

“How is this not that bad? You have a—you’re bleeding!” Also, shouldn’t James be in more pain? Wasn’t a lack of pain some sort of indicator of shock or internal damage or other horrifying potentialities? But he didn’t say that out loud. He wasn’t sure which one of them he was trying to keep safe from the words, though.

James, on the other hand, was still talking. Of course. “And you have blood on your hands. Are you—”

“I’m fine!” As long as that only covered physical soundness. In every other way he was terrified.

The paramedics had appeared beside them now. One of them said “Excuse me, sir,” and nudged Michael out of the way, and the other one started asking James questions about sensation and degrees of pain, and Michael moved to the other side and clung to both of those eloquent hands, one still gloved and the other one unprotected and bare, the fingers warm when they squeezed his.

James, lying there while the paramedics conferred over him, looked up, and managed to smile. Michael tried to smile back.

“Oh, hey…I did tell you I had something to apologize to you for…”

“No, you don’t. Nothing.” Not ever. Not as long as James was looking at him again.

“No, I do. I—oh, fuck, okay, now that hurts. Sorry, I know you’re not trying to make it hurt more. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean that.” Those last words were directed at the nearest paramedic, who had been peeling back bits of James’s suit, carefully. Because of course James would feel the need to apologize for cursing at someone who’d just caused him pain, if that person were trying to help.

And the man looked over and smiled. Like magic, Michael thought. Every time. Even now. “Sorry about that. From what we can tell, by the way, this isn’t that bad, because your suit absorbed a lot of the impact, but I’d recommend you let us take you to the hospital, where we can check for anything more internal.”

James opened his mouth; Michael knew for a fact that the next words were going to involve something as idiotic as “I’m all right, really,” and jumped in before they could escape into the air. “We’re definitely going to the hospital.”

The paramedic looked at him, this time, instead of James. Better. “Probably a good call. And of course you’re welcome to ride along.”

As if that were even a question. He wasn’t leaving James alone at any point. Possibly for the rest of their lives.

Which…wasn’t a bad thought, to be honest. He could, he thought suddenly, imagine seeing James, every day, for the rest of his life. Hearing that plushly-textured voice in the mornings. Keeping chapstick in his pocket always. Having bizarre conversations about the Tooth Fairy and evil sentient holiday flora. Watching James laugh, that genuinely delighted laugh that made the entire world laugh with him, that made Michael want to smile, every single time.

He might’ve never gotten to hear that laugh again. His heart ached, at the idea. A cold kind of ache. Uncomfortable.

James squeezed his hand again. “I didn’t get to finish. I wanted to tell you…sorry about the mistletoe.”

“What?” Granted, he’d been distracted, wondering just when ocean-water eyes and a Scottish accent had become such an integral part of his life, but that still didn’t make any sense. “Why?”

“Um…it was me. Well, mostly. The first one wasn’t me. I think that one was Matthew. After we put the tinsel in his megaphone. Which I still think was completely worth it—”

“Wait. Go back to that first sentence. It was you?”

“The other ones were me. I thought—I don’t know, really. You never—I wanted you to look at me. Not like a friend, I mean. Except I didn’t know how to tell you that, because you _are_ my best friend, and I couldn’t just say—oh, hang on, something hurts a lot now—” Michael felt the increase in pressure against his fingers, and turned around to snarl, “Don’t you have any anesthetic or something?” to the paramedic who was easing temporary bandages into place.

“We do—” The man seemed unbothered by Michael’s best intimidating glare. “—but if James doesn’t mind, I’d rather wait until we’ve checked for anything worse. The pain is a good indicator that everything’s functioning.”

“That does make sense, you know. But I didn’t mean—”

“James, shut up. You shouldn’t have to be in pain. Also the ambulance is here.” It was.

James did fall silent, and shut his eyes for a minute, while the stretcher got maneuvered into place. Michael found himself irrationally afraid; James listening when told to be quiet was a new and frightening occurrence, in his experience.

He could hear his own heart pounding. Too much to process; he couldn’t even think about James’s confession, yet. Even though he wanted to.

James, maybe hearing that thought, opened his eyes again. Went back to attempting to explain, as if it were important that he get those words out at that exact moment. “I really did want to tell you—I was trying to apologize. The first one wasn’t me. But it seemed like a good idea. If it could be an accident—or even if it didn’t work, if you even thought about me once like—if you thought about kissing me, maybe, and then maybe if you thought it might not be a horrible idea—but you don’t, and I shouldn’t’ve tried, because now we probably can’t be friends anymore, and also when I said something hurt earlier I meant my head, actually, and I feel sort of dizzy now and I might be going to pass out, and sorry about that too…”

“You—James?”

No answer. Just, chillingly, not-longer-open eyes.

“James, look at me!”

Still nothing; and the fingers, in his, didn’t move when he tightened his grip. But I think I want to kiss you, Michael tried to say. I want to tell you that you’re my best friend too and I’m pretty sure I love you and I don’t think kissing you is a horrible idea, I think it’s a fantastic idea, and I do want to, I do, please don’t leave me without letting me kiss you, please just don’t leave me, please.

But he couldn’t make the words come out. And James couldn’t hear him.

The paramedics, in a blur of motion, abruptly clustered around them again. “Did he say anything before this happened?”

“He said—he felt dizzy—” All the air had disappeared from the world. Utterly.  “He was—he was fine, I thought—” But that wasn’t right, was it?

“Before—I mean, right after—he wouldn’t—I couldn’t wake him up, right away. Is that—”

“Do you know if he hit his head on anything?”

“I don’t know—” Why didn’t he know? He’d tried to move them, in mid-air, in the last few seconds before the collision; they hadn’t been in the correct fall positions, the ones they’d practiced. Had he caused this, somehow?

Time flickered past, after that, in horrifying chunks. Ambulance. Hospital. Corridors where people in scrubs took an unmoving James away from him. Waiting rooms. Waiting.

Waiting.

Matthew called, once, to check in. Michael answered his phone, numbly. Had to explain that, no, he hadn’t heard anything. Didn’t know.

Matthew said something about accidents and improperly glued-down set pieces and firing some technicians. Michael just listened, nodded, remembered belatedly that Matthew couldn’t see him over the phone, said “Fine,” and hung up.

Kevin turned up, after what felt like an eternity but was in actuality only an hour—and Michael, shocked, checked his phone as well as the wall clock, just to make sure, because of course it had been longer than that, had to be—bringing spare clothing and coffee, and Michael stared at the coffee cup and almost started crying, right there in the waiting room, because they’d been laughing about that only yesterday, about coffee and early mornings and the chapstick that he could still feel in his pocket, a tiny solid weight that did its best to reassure him and failed.

Kevin shook his head, said, “Go change, I’ll stay here,” and Michael looked down at his arms and realized that he was still wearing the clinging X-Men suit, all blue and yellow and supposedly, mockingly, heroic. And tiny traces of James’s blood still winked at him cruelly from around his fingernails.

He grabbed the offered clothing, and fled to the restroom. Washed both hands until they stung. Almost threw up, after noticing that some holiday-minded person had decorated the restroom doors with Christmas garlands and, yes, bizarre as it was in that particular location, mistletoe. Didn’t, though. Just swallowed against the pounding in his head, in his chest, and walked back outside, slowly, collectedly.

What if James never—no. No. James had to wake up. Because James had to know that Michael was in love with him. James couldn’t never know that. Just…no.

Please. No.

Out in the waiting room, Kevin was talking softly to a doctor. She must’ve come in while he’d been gone; Michael put one hand on the nearest chair for balance—it didn’t help—and opened his mouth and then found himself wordless.

“He’s all right,” Kevin said, gently. “She just now came over and told me.”

“Is he—how badly is he hurt?” He just kept seeing blood, on his hands, and closed eyes.

“Not that badly.” The woman’s calm eyes, the color of timber and woodsmoke under ash-blonde hair, studied him kindly. “He does have a fairly severe concussion—I wouldn’t be surprised if he doesn’t remember too much of the accident itself, and you shouldn’t push, he doesn’t need any more stress—but the puncture wound only required stitches; you probably owe your costume designer a note of thanks for that. It could have been much worse.”

He might’ve nodded. He couldn’t quite tell. The hard plastic of the chair bit into his fingers. Nudged him back toward reality.

“But he’s doing fine. He’s awake. He’s asking about you, in fact.”

The whole world spun around him, just once, giddy and exhausted with relief. James. Awake. More or less fine.

“Can I—”

“Yes, you can see him. He wanted to know whether you were here; I’d suggest that you reassure him, so that he can stop asking—” Michael actually found himself smiling, a threadbare suggestion of amusement, at that; he knew how annoyingly persistent James could be. And still would be, in days to come.

“—and we’ll probably send him home tomorrow; at this point he mostly just needs to rest, but someone should be there to keep an eye on him.”

“I can do that.” And he would. Always. He made that promise to himself, right there, in the excruciatingly festive waiting room, surrounded by brittle plastic chairs and the shivering lightness of fear and aftermath. Repeated it, as he climbed thankfully deserted stairs.

He’d thought about waiting for the elevator. Couldn’t. He needed to be in motion.

He found the door of the right room, and then stopped in place, because he couldn’t quite make his feet move forward. He could see all that messy hair, sprawling joyfully over the whiteness of a hospital pillow; could see James breathing, too far away to hear but visible at least, every rise and fall of each inhale and exhale under the thin hospital-issue sheets.

He couldn’t see blue eyes, yet, because James wasn’t looking in his direction, and the long eyelashes had settled down over fragile cheekbones anyway, delicate barricades that asked silently for the quiet of the room to remain undisturbed.

He must’ve moved, though. Must’ve made some noise, because James turned towards the door, and the eyes opened, startlingly clear against all the whiteness, walls and sheets and skin, and the eyes were _so_ damn blue, that familiar sea-shaded brilliance, and Michael forgot how to breathe, just standing there and thinking _thank you, thank you_ , to whoever might be listening.

“Hey.” James found a smile for him, pulling it out of the air and the pain like a conjuror’s trick. “Hey, yourself,” Michael whispered back, and crossed the room, safely now that the first spell had been broken.

“Are you…how are you?”

“I’m fine—”

“ _James_.”

“No, really. They said I can go home tomorrow. If you think of our hotel as home. Which I kind of do, after all these weeks. But that means I’m fine, right?”

“It means you can go home tomorrow. Not the same thing.” There was a bruise on the side of James’s face, one he’d somehow not spotted earlier. It stretched ugly shadows across his cheek and up into the tumbling hair. Michael felt his hands shake, tiny tremors like the foreshadowing of an eruption, and curled them together in a pitiful attempt at disguise.

James obviously noticed him noticing, and sighed. “It looks worse than it is. I’m not going to say I don’t have a very impressive headache, though.”

“James—you—I’m so sorry—”

“For what? It’s not as if you sabotaged the set. Actually, I think I should—I did apologize to you, didn’t I? For all the mistletoe? I know I meant to, but it’s sort of fuzzy, so…”

“You did…” He wanted to say more, but the blue eyes had drifted away from his, glancing down at the edge of the top sheet, as if white cotton might hold some sort of comforting insight. Don’t push, he thought. No stress. Nothing that might hurt James any more.

The sheet, tactfully, opted not to speak up, so James nodded instead, those averted eyes still not quite glancing back up at him. “Then, um. Thank you for staying. For being here. If I—you didn’t have to.”

“You—” Michael said, and then, helplessly, “No, of course I had to, you idiot, I wouldn’t leave you, and you can’t leave me, either, I have to tell you I love you and I’m never leaving you alone again, ever,” and reached over with his own shaky hands to hold onto graceful fingers and feel the steady throb of vitality under freckled skin.

James held his hands right back, surprisingly tightly for someone in a hospital bed, bruised-ocean eyes enormous and astonished and disbelievingly hopeful when they met his. “Did you just say—since when do you—you know I love you, too, that was why—but you—”

“I still have a spare chapstick in my pocket,” Michael told those eyes, and James laughed, even though Michael had just called him an idiot.

“You—”

“And I love the way you smile at me. And the way you want everyone else to be happy. And you hate mornings and you think mistletoe is subtle and I practically went insane thinking I might never get to see you again and I think I’ve been in love with you forever, I just never thought—you were always right there, I thought you always would be, and then—you almost weren’t, you could’ve—and I can’t even—I just can’t—I love you, James. So damn much.”

And James looked right at him, eyes endlessly blue and bright and alive, and said, “I love you, too, always,” and then licked his lips, and Michael promptly freed one hand to grab the chapstick out of his pocket, and almost dropped it because he was busy watching those lips curve up into a smile, and then they both started laughing, under the coolly approving fluorescent hospital lights.

“Oh, that kind of hurts, actually…stitches, sorry…”

Michael stopped laughing, at that. “Are you—”

“No, I’m fine, I’m fine…honestly, totally worth it. You’re amazing. I love you. Can I kiss you now?”

“Of course you—wait. Hold on a minute.”

“Seriously? Why?”

“Just…let me surprise you. Okay?”

“Only if it involves you kissing me,” James muttered, but didn’t protest, just watched curiously while Michael ran over to the door, desperately scanned the profusion of holiday decorations, and then had a hurried conversation with the closest nurse.

“What are you doing?”

“One second…” He could’ve gone in search of his objective himself, but he didn’t want to leave James alone. Besides, as soon as he’d explained that it was for James, he’d gotten offers of help from every single person at the nurses’ station.

Michael could understand that, of course. He knew that feeling very, very well.

But he was luckier than all the nurses, than everyone in the world, anyway. Because, out of all the world, James loved him back.

Amazing. Yes. Always would be.

“I don’t think prolonged anticipation is good for my health, you know.” James was clearly trying to sound pathetic, and it was probably mostly an act, but Michael ran back over to the side of the bed anyway.

“So you want me to kiss you now?”

“Yes!”

“Okay.” He picked up the closest hand in his. Pressed lips to freckled fingertips, lightly. James stared at him, trying not to smile, obviously torn between frustrated desire and amused affection. “You—that—”

“What? You didn’t specify where.” He could still feel the heat of it lingering on his lips, though. Wondered what it would be like, if just that brief touch could send sparks through both of them, to kiss James other places, too, following the scatterings of freckles like luminous confetti across soft skin.

At which point one of the nurses returned, and Michael said fervently, “Oh thank you,” because he wasn’t sure he could’ve waited much longer, and she laughed and pretended, only halfheartedly, not to watch.

He didn’t care.

“James?”

“Are you finally going to really kiss me now?”

“Yes. Here. Under this.” He held up the tiny sprig of mistletoe, leaves shining festively under the light, and James said, wide-eyed, “But you don’t like—” and Michael kissed him, mid-sentence, tasting new chapstick and hospital air and warm skin and unspoken words and _James_ , the taste of completely unquestioned perfection. Always.

And maybe he didn’t mind mistletoe after all. Maybe mistletoe was a good thing. Friendly, even. Cheerful. Definitely not evil.

“Oh, my god, are you still thinking about evil mistletoe? Now?”

“Friendly, I said. Not evil. I love the friendly mistletoe. I love you. Stop talking and kiss me more.”

 

The next day, after they’d gotten James out of the hospital—a process complicated by the fact that James kept trying to kiss him, and by Michael's refusal to let them leave the room without a second and then third opinion—they made their way, carefully, back to the hotel. James looked at him and smiled, when Michael stayed beside him the entire way, opening the door to James’s room because they both belonged there, without question.

James put a hand on his shoulder, stopping him from walking in right away; Michael stared at him, worried—did James need the support? should they turn around and go back to the hospital?—but James shook his head, understanding and amused, and then lifted both eyebrows upwards.

Michael looked up, too. Mistletoe. Tied neatly to the doorframe, just above their heads. “You—”

“I might’ve made a phone call. My turn to surprise you,” James said, and wrapped a hand around his neck and tugged his head down and kissed him, forceful and happy, under the encouraging greenery.

And the mistletoe, Michael decided, was entirely welcome to follow him around, as long as it wanted to, forever.


End file.
